Drowning
by SophieRomanoff
Summary: When a simple recon mission goes very wrong, Natasha is drowned in a tub of water, right in front of her partner. Will Clint be able to get free in time to save her? Day 11 of prompt challenge


Hey everyone, I'm switching up the order of the prompts but they're all going to get done so don't worry! Warnings for violence, water torture and cpr and other medical stuff. Welcome to day 11

Moya Zvezda – my star

DROWNING

As Natasha and Clint were dragged out of the cell they'd been sitting in, they caught each other's gaze and wondered how the hell it had all gone to shit so quickly.

They'd been doing a simple recon, just get the information and get out. They hadn't had orders to attack, hurt anyone or otherwise cause alarm. Just break into a room, copy some information onto a memory stick and leave.

But the next thing either of them knew, something was being thrown at them. At first Natasha had grabbed him and threw them beside the bed, thinking it was a grenade. But then a gas had begun to leak out of it and before either of them could draw a weapon, they were choking and spluttering.

Clint tried to cover his own mouth and Natasha's, his eyelids drooping as he watched her collapse beside him, unconscious. He just managed to do something disgusting and swallow the damn USB before he passed out too.

They'd woken up chained in a cell together, Natasha already awake and alert as Clint groaned. Not being able to touch each other, they used their eyes to check for injuries. Other than a pounding head and dry throat, they were both fine.

An hour or so had passed and then someone had swung open the door and unlocked their cell. They were unchained and dragged, three men on each of them, and dumped unceremoniously in different chains in a different room.

In front of them sat an old fashioned bath tub, metal and grimy looking, full nearly to the top with suspiciously murky looking water.

"I watched the cameras, we lost them when they hit the side of the bed. We couldn't catch what he did with the hard drive but it wasn't in the room." One of the men spoke, presumably to who was the leader at the front.

Natasha vaguely recognised him from the mission packs, but Clint looked clueless. No surprise there then, she thought fondly before being snapped to reality.

"Alright then, her first." The leader spoke up, pointing at Natasha.

In seconds the men were on her, one grabbing her hair and the other her shoulders. She was dragged over to the bathtub, chains snapping in her wake.

"Tell me where you hid the information, and I might let one of you leave here alive." The man said quietly.

When he was met with only glares, he nodded at the men holding Natasha. "Very well. Carry on." He hummed.

The man holding Natasha's hair tugged her until she was on her knees and hunched over. Fingers tightening around strands of hair, he bent and shoved her head into the water.

Clint growled and lurched against his chains.

At first Natasha didn't struggle. She stayed still and calm, thinking over and over how she'd read how to react in this exact situation (maybe not the exact situation, but drowning at least).

Number one rule, do not panic, or you will lose air quicker.

Her lungs burned and her chest ached deeply as the man held her head. When the time reached nearly two minutes, Natasha couldn't help but began to thrash in his grip. The urge to breathe was so strong but she resisted despite the blurring of her vision and the agony inside her chest.

Her limbs flailed some, her nails digging into the man's arm as she tried to make him loosen his grip. She was splashing water over the sides of the tub as she tried to break free.

She couldn't hear and there was a pressure inside her head that made it impossible to think.

Her struggles became weaker and weaker, until she had stopped clawing at him completely, her arms hung loosely at her sides. As her vision was encroached by darkness, she reflexively opened her mouth to try to breathe.

I'm going to die, she thought dizzily.

Water rushed in and down her throat and then she was gone.

Clint was shouting and screaming now, his wrists bleeding as he tried to get free of the cuffs.

"You're killing her, stop!" He shouted.

The man in charge nodded at the one holding her head and he slowly pulled Natasha's head from the water.

He let go of her hair and she slumped bonelessly against the cold concrete.

"Is she alive?" The leader frowned. "Tell me you didn't fucking kill her, we need her alive to get the information back, idiot!" He growled.

The man who had held her reached down and jabbed his fingers against her neck.

He looked up nervously. "She's dead." He swallowed and the leader growled.

"Idiot! Get out, grab everything, we're leaving!" He turned on his heels and walked out, slamming the door like a petulant child.

The rest of the men followed and Clint blinked rapidly. She'd been faking right? She was alive.

"Natasha, they're gone, you can stop now-" he breathed, her read hair covering her face so he couldn't see. He sat very still and waited for to see her chest rise and fall. It didn't.

He cursed and got as close to her as he could with the cuffs. He needed to help her. He needed to get free of the cuffs. There had to be something around to...there! A bobby pin yanked from hair was laying on their ground.

Straining and distantly feeling his wrist pop, not for the first time ever, he grabbed the metal pin.

In seconds his hands were free, next his ankles and then he was on his partner.

One hand pushed her wet hair from her face as the other pressed against her neck.

He stayed absolutely still for a few seconds until he was sure.

Nothing. Her heart wasn't beating and she wasn't breathing.

Her skin was cold and clammy as he first rolled her onto her side, slapping his hand down between her shoulder blades.

There was a soft gurgle that Clint would absolutely not relate to the death rattle he'd heard many times before.

Water spilled over her blue tinged lips and formed a puddle on the floor. He hit her again, hard, more water being expelled from her lungs.

He rolled her onto her back and laced his fingers together above her chest. He pressed them down over and over again against her chest, counting in his head.

Each compression was a little better and steadier as he got into a rhythm.

"Come...on...Tasha...breathe...dammit." He muttered in between compressions.

After thirty, he tipped her head back. Pinching her nose shut, he kept a finger under her chin and locked his lips against hers. He breathed deep into her mouth, quickly turning to check if her chest was moving. It was, which he realised vaguely meant he'd gotten a lot of the water out of her lungs.

After more rescue breathing, another round of cpr began. He cringed as he felt her ribs first groaning and then breaking under his hands.

He couldn't be deterred though and he continued to pump down on her chest and breathe for her.

He was beginning to tire, his own breathing fast and ragged.

It had to work, it had to.

He growled and hit her sternum with a balled up fist, and suddenly she was arching underneath him, coughing and spluttering desperately.

He pushed her into the recovery position, lightly hitting her back to help her cough up the excess water.

"It's okay, you're okay, just take nice deep breaths for me, okay?" He murmured, his free hand pressed reassuringly against her stomach. He could feel her muscles tightening and contracting as she violently threw up and coughed up water.

''Just breathe, Tash, it's alright."

Her skin was getting more colour back and her lips were more red than blue now.

After a few minutes, she calmed down and sank against him, shuddering and taking deep breaths.

He gently reached into her mouth, scooping out water and red tinged foam.

He touched her shoulder and pushed her hair back from her face, wincing at each rattle of her chest.

She was still visibly struggling for air, sometimes choking and gurgling until Clint hit her back or her sternum again.

"It's okay, you're okay." He murmured, his fingers pressed to the frantic pulse at her neck.

"Deep breaths, Tasha, I've got you." He repeated, only getting a soft choked noise as a response.

She looked like she was about to pass out, her chest heaving and her entire being trembling.

He wished he had a jacket or anything to cover her with, her shudders painful to watch.

"Look at me, moya Zvezda." He tilted her face up, "just look at me, keep your eyes open sweetheart."

Natasha responded slowly, blinking and forcing her gaze up to him.

"C…Clint-" She whispered, her voice hoarse.

"Hush, Natasha, just breathe for me. Please." He whispered, stroking a finger down her cheek.

"I'm getting us out of here." He said firmly, standing shakily and reaching down for her. She just about managed to wrap her arms around her neck, not complaining about being picked up.

He lifted her from the concrete, pressing her weight to his chest.

"Keep your eyes on me." He said softly, "you can do it, deep breaths."

When Coulson was called from a payphone ten minutes later, the man answered, worry in his tone. His agents hadn't been at the drop point and they hadn't had comms on them.

"Barton? What the hell happened, where are you?"

Clint peered out the phone booth, squinting at the road sign. He relayed the details to Phil.

"Are either of you hurt? A car is on its way."

"They…they had a bath tub. They held Natasha under the water, they didn't know what they were doing, when they pulled her out, she wasn't breathing." Clint murmured, closing his eyes against the memory of Natasha's limp form, her cold skin pale, his touch on her pulseless neck.

"Is she…?"

"She's alive. But she's not doing so good. Her breathing is…wet, there's a rattle in her chest and she's barely conscious. She…keeps struggling to breathe, it keeps halting and she won't take a breath until I hit her back or chest." He ground out and Phil heard a muttered curse, a soft slap and a desperate inhale.

"Please make them hurry up."

"I've cleared the roads and the traffic lights, they'll be with you in a few minutes."

"Thanks, Phil." The phone was disconnected them and Phil sat back, waiting for his agents to come through the door.

Later that night, Phil walked into Natasha's room, non-surprised to find Clint there. His agent was swathed in blankets, heating pads settled around her ankles. She had a tube down her throat, connected to a machine that hissed continuously.

He'd been paged when half an hour after returning, Natasha had coded in her room.

He'd almost ran there, finding Clint screaming at the doctors and hitting the centre of her chest. "It worked before-" He'd gasped, struggling as a guard had pulled him away from her side.

He'd watched, heart in his mouth and his hand around Clint's waist as they fought to bring her back. She'd looked smaller than she should under all the doctors ministrations. Her back had arched as electricity was forced through her, the sound of machines screaming drowning out the sounds of the defibrillator.

They'd gotten her back, and sedated her, forcing a tube down her throat.

They'd drained her lungs, and done what they could to warm her up. She was table now, and would be physically fine once she came round from the sedation.

For now though, he took a seat next to Clint and wondered how he'd come to care so much for the stray Phil had brought in, and the stray Clint had brought in.

They were a tem, the three of them, and Phil would never let them go.


End file.
